Page 59 of Need to Know

Nate gave me an unimpressed glare. “He’s my dad, not a serial killer. I’m angry as all hell…but I can’t turn him away…he doesn’t look well.”

“I get it…so…if we let your dad stay,” I paused for a beat, “Let’s get this settled…a shag is definitely off the agenda, yeah! There’s no way we’re dicking down with your old pops down the hall!” Nate’s response was a strange, almost hysterical little laugh. I didn’t know why he was laughing; maybe my British sense of humour had finally broken him.

There was a sound, a weight falling. I shared a querulous look with Nate before we both rushed to the lounge to see Nate’s father on the floor, blood seeping through the shirt and uniform waistcoat vest. We both dropped to our knees.

“What the hell? Dad, what happened?”

“Chinese agent found me early this morning; brush past, he shanked me. Thu..think he inserted a tracker.”

“And you came here? What the fuck?” I gasped.

“You gotta get it out of me, Nate. Get it out, destroy it.” Then Curtis Hale passed out. I pulled up his shirt to see a large square bandage that had once been white. I looked up and met Nate’s bloodless gaze. I eased the bandage off to see a half inch incision near the man’s left hip surrounded by purple bruising. It looked like some kind of circular tool had been used to stab into the flesh…it was weeping blood and looked infected.

“Should we call for a doctor?” I asked.

“No, no I can do this,” Nate insisted, pulling himself together. “Dad taught me how to gut fish when I was a kid, getting a tracker out will be easy. I’ll, um, get a knife and a teaspoon from the room service trolley,” he said determinedly.

“Nate, hang on a sec,” I said reaching out and gripping his wrist. “Think about it. He’s going to need an intravenous drip and antibiotics for that infection. No matter what your dad’s done he’ll be safer if he’s in protective custody with proper medical care.”

“You overheard what he said?” Nate asked.

“Yeah, some of it?”

“He’s a CIA asset. His handler betrayed him—wanted to pass the chips on to Oliver Roux.”

I gasped in horror. I wasn’t stupid; I watched the news and knew all about Oliver Roux. The recent Netflix documentary about him was chilling viewing. The man was a megalomaniac, the flesh and blood caricature of a super-villain. He owned weapons manufacturing companies, a mobile satellite launch pad, and had billions of dollars in US government contracts.

“My dad’s been betrayed by everyone he trusted. The US government sees him as an enemy of the state…they don’t give a shit if he lives or dies, all they want are the goddamn chips,” Nate revealed gravely.

“What about the British? What if I can get him political asylum? I bet your dad has a lot of information he could share.”

“I don’t know…I don’t know what to do!”

“Let me call Agent Deveraux. He’s on our side and I trust him,” I suggested. It was a long shot, but I did believe that Agent D was one of the good guys.

Nate slumped onto his backside and ran his hands through shower damp hair. “What the fuck am I thinking? I can’t operate on my dad on the floor of a fucking hotel room! He needs proper medical care, and we gotta get him out of Berlin.”

****

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Jack

“Hello, Mr. Boyd, its Agent Deveraux!” The British voice came through the speaker on the concierge tablet. Nate and I looked up at one another sharply. After the initial scramble to help Curtis, Nate was subdued, perched on the coffee table beside the couch, holding his father’s hand and staring at him, bewildered with the shock of discovering his father was alive. We’d put towels down on the couch and carried his father there, and then using the contents of the first aid box I’d found in the bathroom, Nate cleaned up the wound and dressed it the best he could. Curtis Hale hadn’t regained consciousness yet, but I’d checked his pulse and it was strong. When we’d moved him a black leather passport wallet fell out of his back pocket. It contained a US passport in the name of Christopher Hurst that had an address in Hawaii with two hundred and ten Euros in notes. Sharp knocking on the door reverberated. “I’ll get it,” I murmured as I strode to the door. I checked the concierge tablet camera view to ensure it was Agent Deveraux. He was accompanied by two men in orange German paramedic uniforms who had a wheeled stretcher trolley with them. The FBI agent on sentry duty was also there, his hands on his hips, a perplexed grimace on his face. I opened the door.

“Ah, Jack. I caught the elevator up with these paramedics, are you okay? Is there a problem?”

“Oh, hi Agent D,” I said casually. “The room service waiter passed out,” I informed, speaking loud enough for the FBI agent to hear.

“Come in, come in,” I beckoned the paramedics, “He’s on the couch,” I said directing them to where Curtis Hale lay. Deveraux stood aside and let them through as the FBI man looked on quizzically, I didn’t want him coming into the suite or calling for backup.

“What’s going on in there?” he griped as he tried to edge his way in.

“As I said, the room service waiter passed out. Nothing to worry about Agent Lopez,” I smiled, and then closed the door on him. While the paramedics got to work, Deveraux beckoned Nate and me onto the balcony.

“Where are you taking my dad?” Nate asked his voice husky with concern.

“To a safe house on the outskirts of the city, it’s got a medical facility. You said there’s a tracker in his side?”